I have many secrets, some tender. I wear an invisible undershirt with stains from secrets that shape my spirit and how I see myself. Some of the stains grow as underneath are wounds, still vulnerable. We all have secret stains. We save them for a trusted partner to look at and hopefully respond with love, admiration and a compliment. “I love your stains! This one looks like Texas!”

I have carried a secret my entire life. It isn’t the content of the secret but the burden of holding it that has caused the most trouble for me. I remember from the age of seven wishing adults who were not members of my family but who loved me could read my mind, help me. I believed my second grade teacher, Ms. Esper, knew I was carrying a secret and she could see my pain. She baked a cake for me and brought it to school, then asked me to stay after class and eat it with her. It was my birthday and instead of having a class celebration, she made it a private, special gift. She danced with me. Her love was healing. This went on year after year with my looking to teachers as mind readers; although I could never tell them my secret, I believed each knew my spirit needed a little extra care.

Telling a young child to hold a secret beyond their capacity to process right from wrong is cruel. In my case, a promise of death was pledged if I said a word. As I sit here and write this, my body temperature has risen, my face is hot, my shoulders and neck muscles are tightening. The monster is on the prowl knowing I may speak. Take heart, dear monster. I don’t remember anything, only the pledge.

Learning, then revealing a family or personal secret might bring unwanted attention. When growing up, my mother passed on family mores by starting with the word ‘we’ -- “We don’t air out our dirty laundry." We were not sworn to secrecy but were conditioned to only say positive things about ourselves, our kin.

What happens to the clothes that have been washed yet have stains? Are they considered dirty? Can we talk about our history, all of it? I wanted to be trusted as a secret-keeper about my family's history. I wanted to understand my family better.

One evening over dinner with my Aunt Helen, I asked about my mother’s upbringing. I knew my grandmother had passed when my Mom was 14 and that her life was terribly hard. I heard scraps of dramatic stories from various relatives, including my mother, but never a complete narrative. Aunt Helen would share only sweet, endearing stories, light on details but unmistakable for the positive polish of our family legacy. I knew there was mud somewhere. “We don’t want to talk about that, Dear,” she replied when I tried to tease out details about certain events or people. ‘Your Mom’s an excellent person’ she added with a clear message 'we' were done chatting as if my asking the question or learning any detail might change my mind somehow.

In my house, almost all stained clothes get moved along to Goodwill – with a notable exception for clothing with positive memories. Stain be damned, I feel good putting on my gray USA t-shirt from the Olympics in Beijing or my 20-year-old worn lavender hoodie from Nantucket, or even on rare occasion, my high school track sweatshirt. Stains and all, as I take a final check in the mirror of my outfit, all I see is my smile.

I knew early on I wanted to be a secret-keeper. When we were young, Linda-Marie told Laney and me stories. Her enthusiasm as we sat alone in the forest or high on the ledge of Death’s Door set the tone that we were privileged, entrusted with details other kids would not understand. I was (and am!) a secret keeper of Linda-Marie’s magical stories. Even when my friends Lisa, Carol, Laney and Robin told me something – I listened, was sometimes shocked, but never said anything to anyone.

And then there are the light and bright variety of secrets, marketed as a kept secret to every human on the planet in hope they will spend a nickel to read about it or use it. Secret Ingredient, Secret Recipe, Secret to finding a man, Secret to getting rich…I am weary of secret ingredients. I remember being in my twenties when my girlfriend told me, “You must try this amazing face cream. It has a secret ingredient." As I rubbed the lavender-tinted cream into the soft skin under my eyes, she told me the secret ingredient was placenta. Eww…I’d rather look like a raisin than dip my finger back in that jar.

I will close with one small secret Linda-Marie told me just last week. She won’t mind….

Of course she would mind!! She would KILL me! Sisters (and friends who are like sisters of another mother) are safe keepers of secrets. If your my friend or kin, I will always have room on my clothesline for your dirty laundry. We can share a drink and give place names to our favorite stains.

Tell Me No Secrets by Linda-Marie

Parlor